


I Figured as Much

by Potato_Activist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, John-centric, Just a short lil' ficlet, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, what am I doing with my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 15:38:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14452356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potato_Activist/pseuds/Potato_Activist
Summary: John gets Sherlock a little something





	I Figured as Much

He could not believe it. _Why am I doing this?_ He thought to himself. _I’m going to make a fool of myself, aren’t I?  Of course I am. You’re being a goof, of course Sherlock doesn’t feel the same way. You dull, dull, man._ He looked down at the counter. He’d been looking at ceiling, glaring at the cheap incandescent light bulbs for an answer, some kind of reassurance.

 _If only I knew what the hell he’s thinking. Even then, I might not be able to comprehend it. When you think about it, the guy’s brain is like a never-ending flow of ideas, murders, and who the hell knows what else. He wouldn’t be interested in someone like me,_ he thought, _not because I don’t pay him enough attention -God knows I do- but because I’m not interesting enough. I’m just average little John Watson, who can barely understand his best friend. It’s kind of pathetic, really. If only I’d-Wait, what?_

John snapped his eyes to the cashier. She had just said something, and his self-deprecating inner monologue had lifted him from the plains of reality.  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” John mumbled. He kind of spit it out, really, for the poor girl tending to him looked rather taken aback. _Damn it, I was a tad too-_  “It’ll be £15.59 for those.” she gave a quick glance to the bundle in his hand. “Oh, sure. Sorry about that. Snapping at you, and all.” John tried to comfort her with a smile, but he couldn’t really commit to it. The girl, whose name was written on a name tag too small for John to notice, or, for that matter, read, still appreciated the effort he was making, and asked if he wanted them in a bag, and left their interaction at that. The sound of the sleazy heater was driving both of them mad, and the sickening smell of humidity spilling from the ceiling would have driven the most tolerant of people to suffer from a migraine.

But, lo and behold, John Watson didn’t really catch that either, (And was, of course, sorry about it.) and gave the girl a generous(ish) tip of £4 as he left the shop, a small(ish), old(ish) construction with beaten down walls filled with the soft(ish) smell of incense.

Few people walked by, (it was nine o’clock in the evening, after all) and even fewer met John Watson’s gaze, for it was fixed on the cobblestones of Baker Street. John, for all purposes, looked as angry as a man can be; his brow was furrowed, his face was stone cold, and his free hand was twitching in the slightest manner.

But appearances can be deceiving, and Mr Watson’s was quite misleading. John was not mad, not at all, but his mind was rushing with all sorts of outcomes and possibilities. _What if he doesn’t like them? How will he react? What if he’s high? What if he says nothing and ushers me out? What if nothing happens? Is “nothing” a good sign? I mean, a “yes” would be a good sign. Will he actually agree? What if he laughs? What if I start laughing out of nerves? How would he react then? What the hell would I do? What am I doing? What is my end goal? Well, him, I guess. But maybe there’s more to it than that, right? What if he’s angry at the moment and is not in the mood for stuff like this? What if he_ is _in the mood? What if I’m not in the mood for this? What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?_ _What am I doing?_ _What am I doing? What am I doing?  What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?  What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing?_

_I’m doing what I think should have happened quite some time ago._

And just like that, Doctor John Hamish Watson arrived at the door of 221B, Baker Street.

 

**~°~**

 

John didn’t know what was really happening anymore. He’d have to think about what had just happened step by step. He really wasn’t in the right mindset when he arrived, and he’d say he was rather stressed to fulfill a goal that had been haunting him since he met Sherlock, who was, at the moment, staring at him.

John, when he came in, took the precaution to hide what he brought behind his back, and, because Sherlock is the observant individual he is, the first question asked was “What’s that behind your back?” The first thing John did was blush. Actually, the first thing he did was curse Sherlock’s damn observant nature. The next thing he did was stupid and could probably have been attributed to a five-year old’s thought process: “Nothing. How’ve you been?” In fact, the man in front of him was surprised by the blunt nature of John’s response. He was taken aback. Sherlock had literally no idea how to proceed.

_Okay John, maybe playing it dumb might not have been your brightest idea._

But it wasn’t long before Sherlock figured it out, (based on a couple things, like the smell his jacket gave off, to the way he was holding the mysterious object) and blurted a question out. John, busy cursing Sherlock, didn’t really catch it this time, either.

“Why did you bring me flowers from the shop two streets down?”

 _Okay, maybe this could have waited until tomorrow. How the hell do I continue? What do I answer? Wait, am I staring at him?_ He was, indeed, staring at him. _Oh God! He probably noticed, and won’t ever talk to me again. “Why did you bring me flowers to then proceed to stare at me?” I just gave myself away. I could’ve been more discreet. Why didn’t I accept the bag? Why isn’t he sayi-_

“Can… Can I see them?” The question was uttered with hesitance, and, most importantly, some garbled version of what one would call hope. The air was still, heavy with unresolved tension, both men holding the other’s gaze with uneasiness, both men sailing on uncharted waters, neither of them sure on what would happen next. The husky smell of dust and sweat dictated the atmosphere, and what was once easy complaisance was now replaced with a sinking feeling of loneliness, and the inescapable fear of being left to one’s self.

“Of course, go ahead.” Those words had drained him from the wild, desperate energy he had developed on the way there. He was filled with some kind of acceptance, and, with unwillingness, (for he still held the right to be flustered) John took out a huge bouquet with daffodils, orchids, peonies, lilies and daisies. From his hands sprouted sky blue and ocean green-an entire sunset with touches aquamarine. Sunlight peeking through closed curtains and blushed cheeks.

It was hideous. Nothing really looked good with the rest of the assortment, and John put it together almost at random. It was just a group of flowers that looked amazing on their own, but terrible in a group like this.

Sherlock had never received a bouquet of any type,but this was the most exuberant bundle of flowers he had ever set his eyes upon. He did, after a while, tear his eyes away from the overwhelming explosion of colour in front of him, and looked at John. John. The poor man was blushing beet red, his face and neck relaying just about how flustered he felt right now.

“Did you put this together, John?” John, with some reluctance, nodded his head, to indicate that he had, in fact, put this monstrosity together.

“Figured as much.” _Hey, at least I tried. And it doesn’t look that bad, now, does it? I rather like it myself._ John didn’t like it all that much either. “John, why did you bring this to me?” _Shit. Shit. SHIT. What the hell do I say to that? Am I blushing? Of course you’re blushing you dull idiot! What the hell am I doing? Why didn’t I choose one of the bouquets that were already done? Why the hell did I make my own? I wasted so much money on this Frankenstein’s monster of a bouquet! I am no longer a functioning human, Jesus FUCKING Christ._

“I-uh-kind of... wanted t-t-to tell you I-” John cut himself off mid sentence. _What are you doing? I don’t know! What am I supposed to do right now? What the hell is happening?_

“You…?” Sherlock himself was seeing it coming and was blushing a bit himself. In fact, he was pretty sure of what John would say next, he was just waiting for him to say it.

“...I… Lo-...I love… you.” _Okay, I did it, what the hell was I expecting? HOLY SHIT WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?_

Everything was silent. The tension that had been put up moments before was now in shambles, on the floor. Both of them were flabbergasted. Both of them were blown away. And neither of them expected what happened next.

Shuffling feet on cold, wooden boards, then on carpet. Both pairs of feet gravitate towards each other. Knowing full well what the end goal was, they still wanted to take in every moment of it. The dry, coarse air was filled with dust and the remnant of whatever had been going on in the kitchen. Their chairs had been exactly the same as the day before, and the day before that. The wall had one or two more bullet holes than yesterday, but was otherwise the same. Sherlock smelt of soap and expensive clothing. John, on the other hand, smelt of deodorant and wool.

John looked up at Sherlock, as if that were the most natural thing to do.

Sherlock tilted his head towards John, as if that’s what his neck was designed to do.

Their lips grazed, in the softest of ways, and everything was just right.

 


End file.
